


She was still his Enola

by Narcissa1996



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Chess, Chess Metaphors, Exploration, F/M, Incest, Masturbation, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27580990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narcissa1996/pseuds/Narcissa1996
Summary: Two years after the Royal Academy scene, Sherlock comes home to find now adult Enola waiting for him. She needs a place to stay and he needs to get a grip.(Short story.)
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes / Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! 
> 
> So after watching "Enola Holmes" and the their scene by the tree that exuded so much tension, I couldn't stop myself from dipping my fingers into some Sherlock/Enola. Important to note: Enola is aged up and an adult in this story. 
> 
> This is a short story that will consist of about three chapters. Chapter two is almost finished so it won't take more than a day or two. 
> 
> Also, my fingers are rusty (I haven't written anything in what feels like decades) and as I always point out, English is still not my first (nor second) language so please forgive any awkward wordings you might come across. 
> 
> And now - enjoy!

Enola eyed the room all around her carefully. She spotted a thin layer of dust of most of the dark furniture but for the desk by the window that was buried under so many flying papers of all sorts, you could barely distinguish the dark wood at all. And of course, the chess board and the small coffee table it laid upon were free of dust. 

She sat down on her suitcase, unwilling to touch anything but the dim oil lamp she had switched on and risk messing up the puzzle. This was the great Sherlock’s lair. Granted, it wasn't perhaps as bad as mother and she had left the family estate, but she was sure Mycroft would still be aghast at the sight of Sherlock's flat. 

Enola though couldn't have enjoyed it more. The main room was filled with elegant and refined furniture that you'd expect to find in the most prosperous households, yet it seemed they were strewn haphazardly all over the space - nothing was truly aligned. And then of course there was Sherlock's personal brand of 'mild messiness that could have been tiresome if it weren't somehow endearing'. 

"Enola?" 

She jumped up at Sherlock's baritone voice. She hasn't heard him come in but here he was now, just past the threshold, standing tall and dasher in his navy suit.

"Sherlock." She almost sang his name, suddenly realising how happy she was to see him again. 

He was still staring at her as he stepped inside the living room, not quite trusting his eyes after the long, tiring day he'd had. "What are you doing here?"

Her smile fell, she had hoped for a warmer greeting. "Remember how you asked Mycroft to be my guardian at the Royal Academy?" She prompted. 

Sherlock didn't reply, unbuttoning his jacket before moving to pour himself a drink from the dusty liquor cabinet. Only after a long sip did his eyes land on her again. "That was almost two years ago." Sherlock seethed in a moment of anger before tilting his head, a stray curl falling over his forehead. "Are you not an adult now?" 

Enola nodded. "As of a week ago." 

Sherlock eyed her up and down, his blue eyes intensely focusing on her. She found herself brushing away inexistent lint from her dark green dress under his intimidating stare. "You look different, Enola." 

He was surprised at how much she had changed and grown these past two years - not in height, no she had remained adorably short - but behind the layer of mischief in her brown eyes, there was a certain assurance and poise. She filled out her dress more fully now too, or perhaps it was an optical effect by the corset underneath but either way, his mind had started to wonder about what was beneath the dress until she cleared her throat.

"What brings you to me after thwarting all my efforts to make contact for the past two years?" 

"Well," Enola drawled out, pacing a little. "I find myself in need of lodgings." 

Sherlock scoffed before crossing the room to sit down on his leather armchair. "Are you not lodging with your Marquess?" There was his characteristic teasing voice she had missed. 

"No. In fact, I find myself in hiding from him." Sherlock cocked his head at her words, prompting her to continue. "He proposed to me this morning." 

Sherlock didn't know what to make of that information. His heartbeat quickened but he couldn't identify the reason. "And?" 

Enola started frantically pacing around the room, gesticulating with her arms. "And I told him I couldn't give him an answer there and then. So, he asked when and I said I didn't know, that I needed time to think. I went back to my room at the boarding house but he followed me there and Mrs. Tredgers could only keep him out so long. I had no choice but to pack in a hurry and flee through the roof." 

Sherlock laughed, bemused. She might have grown up but she was still his Enola, the Enola he had known as a child. "Well, you have my hospitality for however long you may need." 

Enola nodded gratefully. "Thank you. I'll just bring my suitcase to a spare bedroom then." 

She disappeared down the hallway, brown suitcase in hand and Sherlock lit up his tobacco pipe, wondering how long it would take her to figure it out. It turned out to be no more than thirty seconds. "There are no spare bedrooms," Enola complained once she was back in the living room with him. "There's just your study and two other rooms filled to the brim with knickknacks of all sorts." 

Sherlock would have been mildly offended at her use of the word 'knickknacks' to describe his most prized possessions that he had acquired through the years, most of them memorabilia from past cases and devices that would undoubtedly prove useful to solve further ones. "I was not expecting guests, Enola. We will go out and buy some bedroom essentials tomorrow. Tonight, you can stay in my room." 

Enola sat down on the settee's armrest, covering her puzzlement with nonchalance. "And where will you sleep, brother?" 

"In my bedroom, of course." He replied as if it were the most obvious thing it the world. 

Enola woke up before her brother the next day, feeling his body pressed against hers in the rather narrow bed in his light blue bedroom. It was the first time she had ever really slept with a man – not in the figurative sense – and she was surprised that she could not remember the last time she had slept so tightly. It did not take a detective to identify the reason; she felt safe with Sherlock, however little time they had spent together in the past, and the heaviness of his arm unconsciously wrapped around her waist throughout the night had provided her with more comfort then she cared to admit. After all, she had been the one refusing his hospitality nearly two years ago, deciding she was old and independent enough to fend for herself and live on her own. 

She hadn’t been wrong then; time had proved that she was indeed sufficiently mature to make it on her own. Enola and alone and all those things mother had always taught her.  
But was there not something to be said as well for companionship? Her brother’s at least? Did she truly have to be alone to emphasise her independence? Because right then, in Sherlock’s arms, Enola started wondering if she had picked the winning side of the bargain when she disappeared rather than becoming his ward. It made her feel safe and protected, and perhaps even loved. Would it make her weak to seek out his comforting embrace? 

Behind her, Sherlock stirred quietly, his body stretching out against hers. She felt the unmistakable rigidity of his manhood press against her bottom in his sleep. Was it wrong that she enjoyed it? Would it make her salacious if she were to snuggle back into his body, a warm sensation taking over her belly as she realised that even as much as Sherlock was an older brother she looked up to, he was also a man she took great pleasure in looking at? Enola decided not to answer that question – why question what feels right? She let herself fall back asleep. 

They headed out to the store as soon as Sherlock woke up. He was unusually quiet, leaving her to get dressed in his bedroom while he made a beeline for the bathroom. Enola barely got to enjoy the breakfast that Mrs. Hudson had prepared for Sherlock – though it was more than enough to fill two bellies – that he was already calling a carriage. 

Sherlock only seemed to relax once they reached the store on Oxford Street and the seller assured them that they had most of the different beds in stock, no need to order. Sherlock let her pick out whichever furniture she preferred and then paid extra to make sure the items she had chosen would be delivered and assembled at his home in the afternoon. Once this was settled, he treated her to lunch in a fancy restaurant, his shoulders visibly more relaxed though his jaw remained tensed and his brows furrowed. 

Letting her share his bed had been a mistake, Sherlock realised as soon as he opened his eyes that morning. It appeared his unconscious body did not care much for the small, yet paramount element that the warm, feminine figure sleeping next to him was his sister. That, in itself, shouldn’t have come as such a great surprise and Sherlock chastised himself for not having predicted it. He should never have invited Enola to share his bed. 

What truly came as shock was that his conscious mind, also appeared to make very little of the fact that they were siblings and instead of encouraging him to assist her as she made her choice between mattresses of various levels of softness, it decided to envision Enola in various levels of undress on each one of those mattresses she was contemplating. He had to make sure they would not have to spend another night in the same bed, whatever the extra cost; Enola had come to him looking for a safe place to stay and perhaps some advice, but certainly not to feel her brother’s desire pressed against the small of her back… once again. 

Sherlock desperately tried to get rid of her company after their meal, reassuring himself that he had shown enough warmth by inviting her to lunch as not to appear rude. Yet, Enola, it seemed, had no intention of spending the rest of her day alone and he did not find the strength in himself to be more outright about his desire for solitude. So, despite his very best, but polite efforts, he found himself spending the afternoon in his study, attempting to solve his most recent case while Enola lied down on the fainting chair, reading a book on the art of fencing. 

Her presence was more distracting than it should have, though as the day dragged along and turned into night, he found himself looking up from his notes to watch her as she absentmindedly acted out the different fencing postures with her arms. He had had enough, he decided then. He had to get out and solve this case so that he could focus on something else but the way Enola would subconsciously tap her finger on her lower lip as she read. 

“I am going out for an investigation,” he finally announced with a deep sigh.

Enola immediately jumped to her feet at his voice, a bright smile gracing her features. “That sounds fun! Let me just get changed into something more adequate.”

That was not what he had had in mind. 

Sherlock stood dumbfounded holding his cane, staring at his sister as she sauntered in front of him dressed in a white blouse that was tucked inside some beige trousers that emphasised her hips. She laughed lightly, gently mocking him for his reaction. 

“Come on brother, I am sure you are aware it is not the first time I have worn masculine clothes,” she teased with a wink. “The first time I did, they were yours.” 

Sherlock swallowed audibly. His heart beat faster. He knew this exchange right then was improper, if not for her clothing, then for the tightening in his trousers at the sight of her, the masculine clothes somehow accentuating her feminine forms. Or perhaps the impropriety derived from her words that had him picturing her in his clothes though not as a disguise, no, in his mind she wore naught but his shirt after they’d-

He shook his head once, hoping to clear his mind. “We should go.”

The carriage ride was a silent affair with Enola watching the London streets through the small window after she went over his notes on the case and Sherlock trying to figure out what exactly it was that was causing him to react this way to his sister’s presence. This question had been frustrating him endlessly the entire day and for once, he was no closer to finding the answer. Enola had grown into a beautiful woman, that much was undeniable, but still, London had its fair share of attractive ladies. Perhaps it was the forbidden aspect of it all, he reckoned with a nod to himself. She was his sister after all, even if their time under the same roof had been short and years ago. Forbidden actions were always the most tempting, Sherlock knew better than to try to convince himself of the opposite, but he had never particularly desired a married woman, thus while it could be part of the answer, it was merely a piece of the puzzle and the lack of answers was driving him insane. 

Once the carriage halted a couple of streets away from their actual destination, Sherlock threw the door open more forcefully than was necessary and Enola’s glare then forced him to tip the driver more generously than was necessary to apologise for the gesture. 

They didn’t speak on the walk to the lover’s house, instead paying attention to their surroundings, making sure they weren’t seen. Luckily, the inhabitants were home already and the street was deserted at this time of the night but Sherlock confident Mr. Garrison wouldn’t be back from his gambling until the wee hours of the morning. 

“And how do you suggest we find our way inside?” Enola asked once they reached the house, its bricks long since having lost its true colour, now blackened by the frequent rains. 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at her scepticism as he led her around the house before tipping his cane on the façade, making her look up at the parted window. “Did you really doubt my skills, Enola?”

His sister laughed, shaking her head with amusement. “Pull me up!” She said, making it sound almost like an order and Sherlock found himself obeying her, creating a makeshift stirrup with his hands. Without hesitating even for a single second, Enola grabbed his shoulder and pulled herself up on his hand. To grant her more stability, Sherlock moved his hands to her calves once she was in the air, then inevitably imagining how her calves would feel under his fingers, picturing the softness of her supple skin on his fingertips…

“I’ll unlock the front door for you!” Enola whispered once she was inside, bringing him back his reveries. 

They inspected the house at length under the dim light that their oil lamps provided. Sherlock was fairly certain the lover did it. Mr. Garrison must have killed Mrs. Hoover out of jealousy and possessiveness and then made the husband look guilty, depriving Mr. Hoover both of his wife and his life. All Sherlock was after now was sufficient evidence to innocent the husband in front of the jury. 

Suddenly, Enola appeared in front of him, successfully startling him though such had not been her intention. “Look at what I found,” she announced with excitement in her voice, handing her brother a framed photograph. “Mr. Garrison is a married man,” Enola said, her finger pointing at the blonde woman who was pictured at Mr. Garrison’s side in the photograph.

Sherlock took the photograph in his hand, inspecting it quickly before giving it back to her. “Was a married man, nuance,” he explained. “His wife was admitted to an asylum on the grounds of hysteria and died in there five years ago.” 

Enola nodded quietly, feeling disappointed her discovery of the wedding photograph did not turn out to be a discovery as all but she was determined to impress her brother. She craved his approval and it ran deeper than him being the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. She craved his approval as her brother, as his equal, hopefully. Perhaps, she just really wanted to impress him as he impressed her. Yet, to her endless frustration, she was not able to find anything useful. Sighing, she made her way back to him, finding him in the foyer, tapping the cane against the wall rhythmically, deep in thought. 

“Have you found anything useful?” 

His jaw clenched, emphasising his sharp jawline. Sherlock shook his head briefly before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, that stray lock of hair falling over his forehead in the process and tempting Enola to get on her tiptoes and run her hand through it more than it ought to. She wondered if he enjoyed having his hair played with, or maybe he preferred to have it pulled on as he-

“I have the motive,” Sherlock spoke, bringing her back to reality. “So, what am I missing?”

Recognizing he was at a loss, Enola wanted to offer her brother some words of encouragement when she saw something through the window right next to the door. “Oh fuck!” She cursed. 

In front of her, Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise, a grin starting on his lips. “Sister, I did not know you were a wielder of such vulgar language.”

She rolled her eyes before grabbing him by his arm and pointing at the window where Mr. Garrison was walking to his home with a blonde woman at his arm. “Look! He’s here and he’s not alone.”

Sherlock took in their current predicament with more grace than she had, thinking up a plan quick on his feet. “We’ll jump out the window just as they open the door, they won’t see us that way.” Quietly, they walked to said window and then just as they heard the key turn into the lock, Sherlock pushed it open and jumped out first before gesturing for her to follow him. 

Risking one last glance at the foyer where a lamp was now being lit, Enola threw herself off the ledge, but the back of her blouse got caught on the protruding shutters. She cursed under her breath, trying to pull herself free and making some noise in the process.

“Hey!” Mr. Garrison’s deep, raucous voice suddenly thundered behind her, his footsteps fast approaching. “Come here you little-”

Recognizing she was running out of options Enola made the decision quickly. She ripped her blouse in the middle and then herself slide out of the garment right into her brother’s arms who caught her easily before setting her down on the ground. “Run!” 

Instinctively, Sherlock grabbed Enola’s hand as they started running away from the house and the couple who were now loudly pursuing them through the night, ordering them to halt, unsuccessfully. They ran through the dark streets, their shoes clicking on the slippery cobblestones until the air left their lungs and Sherlock pulled Enola into a narrow mews which was deserted at this hour but for the horses in their stables. 

They stood facing each other, chest heaving as they tried catching their breath and fought off the burning in their chest. Yet, as the fire slowly left their lungs and Sherlock faced Enola, making out her features only through the moonlight that had graced them generously that night, he felt the fire rekindle again in his body. There was something utterly appealing in the woman standing in her corset in front of him, rosy cheeked and daring eyes that just wanted to start smiling; Enola was utterly maddening and he – Sherlock was certain he himself was going mad when he cupped her warm face in his hand and leaned forward to kiss her lips. 

She flinched for a split second under the pressure of his lips and just when Sherlock was certain she would pull away, Enola fisted the lapels of his jacket in her small hands and pulled him closer. 

Madness was a powerful thing; Sherlock came to realize at that moment. It led Mrs. Garrison to kill her husband’s lover as a revenge for having her committed to an asylum and making up her death.  
Madness too, led Sherlock to kiss his sister. It was also what made her kiss him back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I said the second chapter would be posted two days after the first one but I was struck by a vicious attack of deadlines 😅 I apologise for the delay, but here it is!
> 
> Warning: (incest) smut starts in this chapter!

Stumbling upon a couple in a rather improper posture in the dark alley during their evening walk through the streets of Marylebone had been a rather welcoming distraction. 

Their strides slowed, then came to a stop as the unmistakable groans and moans of pleasure reached their ears. Naturally, their curiosity had led them to investigate the source of such noises and their heads unavoidable turned right, to the mews, at the same moment to find the not-so gentlemanly gentleman and the lady of the night chasing their pleasures together against the brick facade of a deserted house. 

Instantly, Enola and Sherlock found each other's eyes and their smiles erupted with laughter. So, their little discovery had in truth proven to be a very welcome distraction, but it did nothing to help the burgeoning tension between the siblings, quite the opposite. 

Their walk had, in fact, a very clear purpose that remained unspoken: After sharing supper with Mrs. Hudson, the three of them would engage in card games. The issue arose once Mrs. Hudson unavoidably retired for the night after a couple of rounds and the two of them were left to their own devices in Sherlock's apartment. They'd sit together and try to focus on their respective cases but both failed to concentrate on anything but each other's presence. 

The walks were a way to pass the evening until they reached an hour where both could reasonably claim fatigue and take their leave for the night without admitting to avoiding the other, or rather, the tension between each other. 

Sherlock unlocked the front door and then stepped aside to let his sister walk in first. The air had been particularly humid this evening, something that really couldn't be a surprise when it had rained all day before suddenly stopping halfway through their walk. 

Enola shrugged off her thin coat and hung it up before walking to the fire and adding some more logs of wood. When she turned around, Sherlock too had discarded his coat and the matching waistcoat, leaving him in the button-down shirt that clung to his torso. 

"You're wet." 

Enola blinked, both confused and flustered but not enough to look away from him. "Your dress, it's wet. The rain must have seeped through your coat." 

"Oh." She gasped, almost silently. And then to hide her slight embarrassment from having caught an alternate meaning in his words, she quickly unzipped the fastening that ran along the side of her dress and pulled the gown over her head. She hadn't worn back lace dresses ever since finding that small little shop that carried more practical women's wear, a few months back. 

Sherlock stared at her figure from across the room, his eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts before averting his gaze once he knew he had been caught. She was nowhere near naked truly, she still wore her corset and a gossamer chemise, though nothing underneath. Yet, it showed enough skin to provide clues as to what was hidden and to Sherlock there was never really something more enticing than a mystery. 

Waiting for her dress to dry by the fire, Enola sat down on the chesterfield. The armchair was Sherlock’s, no one else was to sit there. Ever. It was where he read, where he thought and where he solved his riddles. And apparently, it was also where he decided to sit down that evening, rolling back the sleeves of shirt, even though they had reached the hour where retiring to their bedrooms couldn’t be seen as rude. Enola failed to understand why he was still there. It didn’t help that they were sitting face to face, merely separated by the small coffee table in between the settee and the armchair. 

“Has the moment come for you to share with me why you’re hiding from your Marquess?” Sherlock asked, taking them both by surprise. Truly, he was surprised he had lasted this long without knowing the answer, especially when the Tewksbury boy had been occupying his thoughts this past week more than he cared to admit. 

In front of him, Enola feigned confusion, furrowing her brows and drawing back her legs on the Chesterfield. “I’ve explained already, he’s asked for my hand in marriage.”

Sherlock grinned, almost too briefly to notice. Enola was undeniable endearing when there was something she was trying to hide, almost coy. “Yes, you’ve already said that. I am asking why his proposal had you packing up all your belongings in a rush and coming to me, when you very effectively ignored my attempts to find you these past two years.” To his wonder, his sister – the untameable girl – blushed. “Has the cat got your tongue, Enola?” Sherlock teased, his baritone voice dropping an octave.

“No.” She retorted, uncharacteristically quiet and avoiding his eyes.

Sherlock frowned, his interest now more piqued than ever. What could it be that would have her, of all people, fleeing, running away from her troubles? His blood suddenly ran cold at the scenario that came to his mind and his voice had lost all its teasing when he spoke again. “Has the boy proved himself,” he pondered his next word carefully, “ungallant?”

He watched his sister’s eyes widen at his question, immediately shaking her head and undoing all the work Mrs. Hudson had put into her updo that morning. “No, nothing of the sort.” She replied, quenching his fears but not his curiosity.

Forbidden images came rushing to his mind when he asked the next question. He tapped his finger on his plush lower lip, hesitating. It was not his place to ask, but he didn’t seem to care. “Are you afraid of the carnality that comes with marriage?” He could see it then, all too clearly in the picture his mind had conjured, his vivid imagination once again treacherous as it drew an image of his sister, nude, on his bed. Her sinuous body perfectly enwreathed in his light blue silk beddings. Would she be uncharacteristically shy, he wondered, or would she be intrepid as she was in everything else?

“Of course not! I am not afraid of anything!” Enola blurted out, defensively and Sherlock found himself smiling once again, not bothering to hide it this time. This was the Enola he knew, the Enola he cherished. “Besides,” she drawled out, “in typical Holmes fashion, curiosity did not wait until after marriage to get the best of me.” 

Sherlock’s smile fell, his hands tightening on the arms of his leather chair until he consciously forced himself to let go, letting the blood flow back to his whitewashed knuckles. A foreign feeling tightened in his chest, his lungs, his heart. A mixture of hurt and fury he had never experienced before and that would have had him interested in exploring at any other moment. Sherlock swallowed and forced his voice to show no more than polite interest. As if any interest at all could be described as polite and proper in such a conversation. “And? Did you not find yourself interested in the pleasures of carnality?” 

Enola huffed, shaking her head slowly before shifting her gaze back to him, a smirk on her lips. Her brother was staring at her intensely, too intensely. It made him look more striking than he had any right to be. Enola breathed out slowly, gaining courage. “Chess is your favourite board game, but only with a worthy opponent, correct?” She asked and Sherlock nodded cautiously, with a furrow to his brow as a curl of deep brown fell on his forehead. 

“I… I keep finding myself frustrated playing chess. Twekesbury, while enthusiastic has not shown himself to be a worthy opponent.” Enola paused, eyeing Sherlock as he parted his lips to say something before closing them again, wordlessly, swallowing tightly. She had never seen her brother speechless before and it made her entire body tingle in such a way that had her thighs rubbing against each other. “In fact, the only worthy opponent I’ve been able to play against – with – has been myself.”

The words hung heavy in the air between them, the burning fire behind them having now effectively warmed up the place. Sherlock was convincing himself that his mind was playing tricks on him, that he was looking for clues where there were none and that chess was nothing more than the board game displayed on the coffee table between them. He would have been able to convince himself of his own insanity weren’t it for his sister’s smirk as she made herself more comfortable on the Chesterfield. He should have gotten up then, yelled at her to stop her games and made his way to his bedroom… where he would certainly have found himself playing chess on his own. 

His throat was dry but he forced himself to speak nonetheless if only to maintain an illusion of composure even as he crossed his legs to hide how truly uncomposed he was at the moment. “I am sure there are worthy chess opponents out there, if not Twekesbury, then someone else.” Still, he didn’t want to imagine her with any of them. He didn’t want to imagine her with anyone but him.

Enola sat back, her shift rising up her legs until more than a sliver of light, supple skin above her knees was revealed. From where he sat, Sherlock could make out a faint constellation of freckles on her left thigh that disappeared under her chemise. Were they flat, he asked himself, undistinguishable by touch, or would his fingers make out a faint elevation? “What if I don’t want to play chess with any of them? If I am a queen, why should I settle for a pawn?” 

Sherlock breathed with difficulty. She had a point, he admitted to himself trying to ignore the way her tongue slowly ran across her upper lip as she waited for him to say something, anything. When he remained silent, Enola parted her legs, bending them at the knees on each and displaying herself to him. Fully. His jaw clenched, his cheeks burning up and his trousers growing tighter all at once. She was entirely bare under her shift. “Enola,” Sherlock rasped in a whisper, warningly. 

She didn’t stop, no. She brought her hand to her core, parting the soft lips carefully and revealing a shine that had him feeling thirstier than ever. Her fingers ran along the pink flesh, slowly, seductively, captivating every figment of his attention and imagination all at once. “Why should I settle for a pawn when I am a queen and all the best moves belong to me?”

Sherlock groaned audibly, trying to look away but unable to do so no matter how much he pushed himself to. “Does your hand ever tire when you play against yourself - with yourself - Sherlock?” Enola paused for a second but didn’t give him time to answer, not that he could have anyway, not while her fingers were languidly tracing the contours of her pink bud. “You have nice hands, Sherlock, but do they compare to the softness, the warmth of a queen’s core?” 

She was starting to moan now, softly, and Sherlock couldn’t pretend this wasn’t affecting him any longer. When his hand reached down to palm at that hard, burgeoning bulge at his crotch, he couldn’t stop the hiss that escaped his lips either. “What do you want, Enola?” He groaned, rubbing himself through the soft fabric of his trousers. 

In front of him, Enola smiled, genuinely. She had been right all along, this wasn’t one sided. For some reason, the discreet movements of her brother’s hand as his lids grew heavier, was exponentially more arousing than anything Twekesbury could ever do. “Is it fair that you and I should be cursed with the choice between perpetual dissatisfaction or resolving to our own devices, when we could have just what we desire together?”

Sherlock groaned again before biting down on his fisted hand. “What do you want? Say it.”

His sister smiled brightly, freeing her hair from the pin that held the long, brown waves back. They cascaded down her heaving chest, her nipples nearly poking out from under the ivory corset. “I want you to show me how a worthy opponent, a worthy lover, plays chess, Sherlock. I want you to prove to me that chess is a game meant for two.” 

When he didn’t budge, she was afraid she had pushed it too far, that perhaps she had drawn him away for good. She might be young and relatively pretty, yes, but to think she was anywhere near Sherlock’s standards was beyond ludicrous to her now. Why would he want the apple when he could have the Garden of Eden?

Yet, when he stood from his armchair, the tent in his trousers pitched high and a small wet stain forming at the tip, it wasn’t to leave. Instead, he crossed over the small coffee table with his long legs before stopping right in front of her, towering over her smaller frame. Then, when he lowered himself to his knees between her legs, it was her who was left speechless. 

“Allow me to show you, Enola,” Sherlock murmured as he pried her hand away from her cunt, his blue eyes fixed on hers, silently asking for her consent. Enola nodded breathlessly, chest panting. 

It was evident that Sherlock knew what he was doing the moment he nuzzled his nose to the delicate skin of her inner thigh, taking in her scent with closed eyes. The noise he let out when her smell reached his nostrils was more animal than human, though before she could dwell on it, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around her thighs, pulling them further apart until it stung at her joints. His tongue latched into her core as if it were in her flesh that he would find all the answers to the questions he had ever asked himself. His lips sucked on her clit as if it were a crime scene he was exploring for any clue, for any hint that would direct him straight to her pleasure.

“Sherlock, oh God!” She gasped, her voice breaking when he solved her puzzled, putting all the minuscule, scattered pieces together is such a meticulous way she never before imagined could be so satisfying. Sherlock found himself moaning against her flesh with each of her gasps and whines as they shot bolts straight to his erection. “Sherlock, I… I am coming!” Enola heaved, her body squirming against his mouth but he didn’t relent until her limbs had lost all their strength. Only then did he pull back, chin glistening with her pleasure under the dim light as he let himself enjoy the look of bliss on his sister’s face, mischievous eyes unfocused as she tried to regain to her breath. 

Sherlock hesitated, panting. His cock was restless in his trousers, but he didn’t know where he should tend to it; there, in front of her, or hidden away in his bedroom. Enola answered the question for him when she sat up once again on the settee. “Allow me to show you my gratitude, Sherlock,” she purred, looking up into his eyes as her deft fingers unlaced his trousers before pushing them down with his undergarments. His length, surrounded by dark curls, bobbed up in front of her face, almost hitting her nose. 

She marvelled at the bead of precum on the crown for a moment until her hands moved to carefully draw back the foreskin as she glanced up at her brother’s flushed face once more. Her eyes caught the way he threw back his head as she slid his cock into her mouth, inch by inch, until there was no more give and her hands had to take care of the remaining length. Surprising herself, she heard him keen above her and that was all the encouragement she needed as she started slowly moving her head back and forth, enjoying the taste of him on her tongue. Her left hand slid down to cradle his testicles. “Enola.” Sherlock grunted, sounding almost pained and then his hips started bucking in rhythm with her mouth, his large hand reaching down to tangle in her hair. 

It didn’t take him long to reach his peak, not after the show she had put on for him before and certainly not with the skilled way in which she played him. He cursed out her name and various undignified profanities, alerting her that it was time to let go if she didn’t want him to spurt his semen down her throat, but Enola merely took it as an invitation to draw him even deeper inside. His knees buckled as he came, his hand seizing her shoulders to keep his balance as he watched his sister swallow it all before cleaning him up with her tongue and finally letting go of him with a small pop. 

Slowly, she rose up to her full height, licking her lips for any traces of his seed that might have escaped before. Her hands gripped handfuls of his now sweaty shirt, her chin tilted up to look into his eyes. “I cannot marry him and deny myself this, Sherlock,” she whispered solemnly. “I don’t want to settle for less than the game we just played. Do you?” 

And with that question, Enola was gone, quietly disappearing in the corridor that led to her room. 

Sherlock stood locked in place, watching her walk away. His chest still heaved as he tried to make sense of what just happened. It was a lost cause, though. All he could think about was her. She wouldn’t deny him if he followed her now, would she? Not after what had just transpired. He ran a hand through his damp curls, making the decision to curse his soul for a taste of his sister, when there was a hard knock to the front door. 

Sherlock cursed under his breath, hurrying to tuck himself back into his trousers as Mycroft’s voice reached him through the wooden door. “Sherlock, open this door right now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it! 
> 
> I hope the allusions to chess were somewhat correct. I do play chess everyone in a while but I nowhere near good. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought :) Next chapter will be up as soon as it's finished!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think (except if it's to criticise me about writing incest since it's very obviously stated in the tags). 
> 
> Smut will start in the next chapter!


End file.
